Meliora
by gxldentrio
Summary: A collection of unrelated drabbles focused on James, Lily and at times, the other Marauders.
1. James potter, a concept

Hey guys! I'm joining on the drabble-series bandwagon, instead of posting dozens of 500 word one-shots. Most of these drabbles won't have a specific plot or anything, but will instead focus on character. Meliora means, essentially, "better things". This one is about James, who turns 56 today. Happy birthday James!

* * *

oOo

James had come to his parents as a shock, a surprise. They were older, and had given up on the idea of a child long ago. And then, he came along. His parents stayed home to take care of him and catered to his every wish. He was pampered, spoiled even, and so it was obvious that when the time came, he'd have no trouble adjusting to living in a castle.

For some, James Potter was a mere concept, a hybrid, a mix between a man and a God, ringleader to the group of infamously famous pranksters, the Marauders. James was extremely attractive, although not in an obvious way like his best mate, Sirius Black. No, James Potter was thin and gangly and, when it came down to it, a bit of a dork, but it was the way in which he carried himself, strutting through the corridors that _demanded_ attention. When James Potter walked into a room, he filled it up completely, and it wasn't because of his position as Quidditch Captain or because of his unruly hair (well, only a little). When he walked in, everyone stood up to talk to him. He was charismatic, magnetic and he knew it too. After all, how could he not know it?

Severus Snape, however, thought of him as nothing more than a spoiled, rich kid (which wasn't that far from the truth). He saw James as arrogant, _lazy_ even and the distaste was nothing if not mutual. For Severus Snape, James Potter was a lost cause.

For Lily Evans, James Potter was _not_ a lost cause. Of course, the boy was often more trouble than he was worth and his habit of hexing students left, right and centre just because he could infuriated her beyond belief. But truth be told, ever since that day by the lake, he hadn't raised his wand on a single student unprovoked. And so they had started a tentative friendship that the both of them cherished more than they cared to admit. James was a boy of admittedly remarkable talent, both on a broom and in the classroom. His popularity, his fortune, his inability to shut up... none of that mattered to her. What did matter was the way he had taken in three misfits, that had all been abandoned in one way or another, and given them a family. Or maybe it was the permanent glint in his eye that not even the wire rimmed spectacles could hide. Because, for all his faults, his heart was in the right place and she loved him for it. She loved all of her friends, of course, but there was something about him that just warranted a second look.


	2. Untitled

**This started as a random songfic and escalated from there. For Caroline (jiilys on tumblr), who inspires me everyday. James Potter through the years.**

* * *

You're eleven years old and you're finally on the Hogwarts Express. You've been waiting for this moment your whole life, and so far you're getting along with everyone, except for that strange boy with the greasy hair and that red headed girl. You decide she's the prettiest person you've ever seen, but you won't tell that to anyone, not even Sirius, who may or may not be your best friend even though you've very nearly just met.

You're twelve years old and one of your best friends is a werewolf and it's so _cool_ , except it's not cool at all that he comes back full of scratches every full moon, and it's not cool at all that he wakes up most nights, screaming with nightmares, drowning in cold sweat.

You're thirteen, and you, Padfoot and Wormtail have decided to become illegal Animagi to help Moony, and even though it's dangerous and you could really get in trouble, it's _Moony_ and what's life without a little risk anyway? You don't tell anyone but you wish you could tell Evans because maybe then she'd realise you're not an insufferable git after all.

You're fourteen and that Evans girl still doesn't like you very much. She calls you lazy and arrogant, but for the most part leaves you alone. You still don't understand why she hangs around that Snivellus bloke, but you've decided it must be far too complicated for you to discern on your own.

You're fifteen and things have never been so terrible. Well, you've finally managed to do it, to transfigure into animals, to keep Remus company during his time of the month. But there's a war blooming outside the castle (and some times _inside_ too, you suspect) and it's getting harder to ignore it. You don't know how to tell Sirius you've seen his brother hexing a muggleborn and you're afraid Lily is going to get hurt if she hangs around Snape any longer.

You're sixteen and everything has gone to shit, Sirius has betrayed you, he's betrayed the Marauders and you don't know what to do. You don't know if you were wrong about him because if you were, they maybe you might have been wrong about everything else. You run down the Whomping Willow to save Severus Snape, and the next week he calls Lily that awful word. She calls you an arrogant toerag and compares you to the Giant Squid as if it were your fault, but you run after her and apologise anyway. She wants space and even though you don't like the idea, you understand her and leave her alone. When she sees you on the platform in September, she smiles at you and your heart beats a little faster and your stomach flops and _she_ _'_ _s so beautiful._

You're seventeen, walking the streets in Hogsmeade with your best mates, and Sirius is with you again because he's realized his mistake and he's sorry, he really is, and he's your best friend and you love him, and love is about forgiveness. You and Evans are somewhat friends now, and you're surprised that there's so much about her that you don't know yet, and Merlin, you want to find out. You're seventeen and when she slips her hand into yours and laces your fingers together, you spend the better part of two months convincing yourself it was because of the cold and it takes a drunken kiss in the Common Room for you to finally accept the sheer possibility that she may like you as more than a friend.

You're eighteen years old, an adult in both the magical and muggle world and you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. Your life is falling apart and you're constantly afraid, not for yourself but for everyone else. She spends the night with you and you admit to yourself you love her, you love her, you love her. You're Head Boy and she's Head Girl but you're both just kids and you have no idea what to do. People seem to think you've got your shit together but you don't, not even in the slightest, but 'fake it until you make it' has always been your motto and you don't have it in you to break down now.

You're nineteen and the world is far messier than you thought it was, even if you didn't think it was possible. You come home after each battle feeling lost and exhausted, and one day you've just barely escaped from a mission alive and you're so delirious you propose. She says yes, and even though you've been held hostage for over thirty six hours, the sun seems to shine a little brighter because nothing can be that terrible when Lily Evans agrees to marry you.

You're twenty and your wife is giving birth and your son is so small and _Lily, he has my hair_ , but pretty soon your bubble of happiness is shattered and you have to go into hiding. You hate it, you feel like a coward trapped inside his own house while other people fight your battles for you but your family is in danger and it's your _job_ to keep them safe, so you swallow a few frogs and pray that this is all over soon.

You're twenty-one and there's someone at the door and even tough you know what's coming you foolishly hope for a different outcome. But you know that's not possible, and so you run to the door and face your death head on, just to buy the two of them a little more time.

You don't make it to twenty-two.


	3. Kitchen Full of Pop Stars

_A/N:_ This is something that came to mind out of nowhere and that I typed on my phone while I was waiting for my dentist's appointment. Enjoy.

 _Disclaimer_ : I own nothing.

 _Summary_ : They're a mess, the three of them, but it's home.

* * *

Contrary to popular belief, their life is not a bed of roses.

To be perfectly honest with you, it's a fucking mess.

His parents just passed away, Sirius was kicked out of his own house and Lily is currently target practice to a racist gang. Between lawyers, hiding out in the back of old diners and planning a goddamn funeral, university and papers and exams, the three of them are running themselves ragged, filled with caffeine to the brim.  
Lily needs a place to stay because her sister is being a priss, as usual, Sirius would be all but homeless if it weren't for James and James… well. He used to be filthy rich, but between hospital bills, student loans and paying for the funeral, it's only natural things have changed a little.

It is, to put it lightly, a fucking awful scene.

Lily, being the lovely logical lady she is (amazing alliteration notwithstanding,) suggests they team up and move in together. After all, it makes sense. One rent, three times the income. The other two agree that it's the smartest thing to do, and so, for weeks upon weeks, they scour the town for available apartments that aren't terribly expensive. It's the beginning of February when they find a small, one bedroom flat for ridiculously cheap and Sirius doesn't even bat an eyelash, using what little he inherited from his uncle Alphard, – may he rest in peace – to get the three of them a home.  
The house is above a café, and so every day, they're woken up by the lovely scent of coffee grounds. One time, Lily trips over a cardboard-box-turned-into-coffee-table and scrapes her knees, and James nurses her back to health. Sirius takes up knitting, James gets a job on the coffee shop downstairs, and ironically enough, Lily is hired by a nearby florist.

Chaotic, for sure, but it keeps them busy.

It's been a full three months since they've moved in together and their lives are still packed up in boxes, piled up on top of each other on a random corner of what will one day be their living room. They haven't bothered with a bed frame yet so Sirius sleeps on the couch while Lily and James share the mattress on the floor.  
The bathroom sink is stained by minty toothpaste and the cupboards are filled with candles and hair products.  
On good days they eat take-out from the chinese place across the street, but on not so good days, they eat noodles they bought from a vending machine at uni. It tastes like cardboard, but it's cheap, and so they make it work.  
There's a large window in the bedroom, one of the very few in their flat, and when the clock ticks four p.m. the sun comes pouring in and warms up the carpet. It's Lily's favourite spot in the whole world.

They have singing contests in the kitchen, and their podium is carefully constructed out of _more_ cardboard boxes (Sirius figures their flat is 78% cardboard at this point. Lily argues the boxes are _versatile_ and _honestly Sirius, we are living the_ life).  
The fridge has more condiments than anything else, but any time they get their hands on eggs and milk, Sirius makes pancakes, which James drowns in ketchup, the heathen.

It's finals week, and James nearly keels over from all the stress and lack of sleeping. They're all but dead on their feet, but somehow the three of them survive it, and they go out and get ridiculously sloshed to celebrate.  
They get back to the flat after two in the morning, stumbling over furniture, into the IKEA mattress, all tangled limbs and mouthfuls of dark red hair.  
It's messy, and far less than some of them are used to, but somehow it feels like home.

So no, their life is not a fucking bed of roses.

It's so much more.


	4. in another life

**A/N:** Because this month wasn't depressing enough yet. The judge/lawyer au none of you asked for.

* * *

They meet in law school. Criminal law, senior year, to be precise. Professor McGonagall drones on and on about _mens rea_ and _strict liability_ and because it is an eight a.m. class on a Monday, most students are half-asleep. Potter's not, of course. He _loves_ it.

"And the purpose of diminished capacity is… Potter?"

"To negate _mens rea_." McGonagall nods, and Lily swears she can see the corners of her mouth twitching.

oOo

The months go by. Eventually, because it is only natural, the two of them fall in love, and they fall _hard_. It's the kind of love that lasts for better or for worse, forever. Lily's never believed in soulmates, (Potter does, _of course,_ ) but, at the risk of sounding cliché, it feels like the familiar tug in her heartstrings was meant to be.

They could have had it all, but in the end, they both choose their careers.

It's a mess, and it hurts more than anything, even more than the time Lily was fifteen and her sister went missing, only to wind up in the hospital a few days later. Potter doesn't feel like a sibling, he feels like a _part_ of her. It feels like her heart is being torn in two and he's taking one half with him.

Neither of them wants it, but it's how it has to be.

* * *

(Four years later)

It's nine in the morning when she steps foot inside the courtroom. She walks to the bench, sits down, and fumbles with a loose thread in her robes. People start coming in, defense attorneys and witnesses and the jury and him.

She still sees him from time to time, out of the corner of her eye after a long case, in the back of her mind when she's trying to fall asleep. He's turned into a _brilliant_ lawyer, like she always knew he would. She stayed in law school, studying to become a judge.

When the clock ticks half-past-nine, he runs his hand through his hair - she's glad to see _that_ hasn't changed - and stands up. Today isn't about James Potter and law school reunions; it's about Tom Riddle and his organ trafficking business. The british government has been after Riddle for years now, and Lily prays Potter doesn't muck it up. Riddle's guilty, she's sure of it, and yet she can't do anything if the prosecutor doesn't do a good enough job.

"Good morning. My name is James Potter and I am the prosecutor in this case." His voice is deep - deeper than she remembers - and his face is set in a serious expression, one she hasn't seen him wearing since his father's passing.

The trial passes in a blur, and even though his closing statement ended with " _and in conclusion, may I say that black robe is very slimming on you, Your Honour_ ," she can't help but feel somewhat foolish.

She shouldn't have been so on the edge about his performance. He nailed it, of course. And now, Riddle's in jail. Fucking _finally._

oOo

When she reaches her office, he's beat her to it, undoubtedly waiting for her. Something is pulling the two of them together, time after time, and she doesn't know what it is. It can't possibly be _fate_ , (because there is no way fate can be this cruel.)

"Potter."

"Evans," he nods, fully aware of the fact that they can only drop the pretence once she shuts the door. And so, she does. "Long time no see, eh?"

"I know. It's been the most peaceful month I've had ever since I met you." He clutches at his chest, and she smirks.

"Ouch."

"You did wonderful back there. I particularly liked your closing statement."

"Well, you know me." She does, even though he's different now. Grown up. Life isn't his playground anymore, it's serious. His posture is straighter, his eyes are sharper. But not everything has changed. His smile is still the same, and the dimple on his left cheek is still there. They are both still head over heels in love with each other, but Lily knew _that_ was never going to change.

Her gaze drops to the floor, and she asks, "do you remember-"

"Of course I do," he finishes. "Criminal law. Your hair was in a braid."

She steps closer and their foreheads touch.

"I'm sorry, James," she whispers.

"It's not your fault."

"If it got out, Riddle's lawyer could easily convince the jury of favouritism. We've been after this for _so long_ -"

"I know."

There's silence, but it feels like their hearts are in deep conversation with each other. Beat, beat, _beat._

"I love you, you know," she says, because it's true, because it is the _only_ thing she knows to be true.

"I'll _always_ love you."

His lips touch her temple, and he leaves, under the promise of someday, somehow.


	5. Ephemeral

_e·phem·er·al (ĭ-fĕm′ər-əl)_

 _adj._

 _1\. Lasting for a markedly brief time: "There remain some truths too ephemeral to be captured in the cold pages of a court transcript" (Irving R. Kaufman)._

 _2\. Having a short lifespan or a short annual period of aboveground growth. Used especially of plants._

 _n._

 _Something, especially a plant, that is ephemeral._

* * *

Dear, I love you.

Right now, while we're in bed, and your head is on my chest, I love you. I love you like this. Under my thumb. Next to my heart. I love you.

I do not know how it started. Or when, or why.

I know I love you. I love you when it's cold, and you've just stepped out of the shower, and so your hair is still messy, because you haven't bothered to brush through it yet. When you run across the corridor to grab your robe from the upstairs bedroom.

Outside, in the garden, with mud under your fingernails, because you've just finished potting some peonies. You've always been good with flowers. And with people. I've never been much of a people person myself, but I like to think that I'm good with you.

I love you like this.

Making pancakes, and reading with the windows open. The house gets cold because of it, but I've grown accustomed.

I didn't think we'd have this much time. It used to feel like the walls were crumbling around us. In my nightmares, I couldn't shelter you from the danger. I still can't, but you've never needed much sheltering anyway. But I love you, and we got lucky.

* * *

Dear, I love you.

It's two in the morning and I can't sleep. Your incessant rustling under the sheets used to drive me mad, but now I can't sleep without it. Your toothbrush lies next to mine in our bathroom. I think I accidentally used your shampoo yesterday, but it's fine. My hair smells of lavender now, and I carry you with me everywhere I go.

I love you. Darling, I've loved you.

I was eleven when I met you. I've been in love ever since.

Sipping tea during breakfast, and putting too much butter on your toast. It's ridiculous. You're ridiculous. But I love you, and so what does that say of me?

I'm ridiculous without you, dear.

Where have you gone?

* * *

Dear, I love you.

We're not soulmates. At least, I don't think we are. I don't like the idea of something pulling me to you. I love you because of who you are. Not because Fate, or the Gods, or whoever says so. I love you.

Inside the hospital room, at the funeral, under the ground, I love you.

I will love you.

In this lifetime, I will love you. And the next. And the next.


	6. real is rare

**A/N** : this was written for the jily secret santa on tumblr! i am also in no way, shape or form an art specialist and so i probably fucked up a lil' but it's ok because james potter is alive and i love him

* * *

 **real is rare**

"I hope you can find a way of getting us out of this mess," says Lily from her bench on the prison cell.

At a loss for words, James shrugs and asks, "Couples who get arrested together stay together?"

She grins. "You're incorrigible."

* * *

It started, Lily thinks, a couple of weeks before. James had been going absolutely mental over a university paper about Louise Bourgeois. The bloody thing was driving him insane, and he seemed set on taking her down with him.

He seemed particularly taken with one of her sculptures, _'Maman',_ Bourgeois' masterpiece. It was a freakishly tall spider made of stainless steel, and Lily found it quite revolting. James, however… he was bloody infatuated with it.

Lily supposed it was an art student thing. She wouldn't know; she was majoring in biochemistry.

For weeks on end, James would drone on and on about the importance of it all; _"Bourgeois' drive to create is uncanny,"_ or _"Did you know that the spider reminds her of her mum?"_

It was soon starting to make Lily desperate to either tear her hair out, or glue his lips shut. Don't get her wrong, Lily's always supported James in all of his endeavours, but if after sex, your boyfriend started going on about it, you would feel frustrated too.

It only seemed right, then, that when James' birthday rolled around, she would take him to the Tate Modern to see the bloody thing. In hindsight, Lily should have known better.

* * *

It's just after ten in the morning when the two of them walk in, Lily dragging a blindfolded James Potter behind her. So far, he's only tripped on two people and one baby stroller, and so she counts it as a personal win.

"Are we there yet?" he asks, just like a child in a long road trip would.

"We're almost there, sweetie," she teases him. "Would you like to stop for ice cream, as well?"

"You're hilarious," he deadpans.

"Thank you. It's one of my best qualities, I'll have you know."

Eventually, after walking in circles in what feels like forever, Lily finally notices the shiny, stainless steel monstrosity. She can't decide if it's more or less hideous up close.

"Stay still," she tells him, before standing on her tiptoes and reaching to untie her grandmother's polka dotted scarf.

Once the makeshift blindfold comes off, it takes him a second to understand where he actually he is, and when he does, his lips split into an ear-to-ear grin. "You didn't."

"I did." And she is smiling too, because James may be a pain the arse – on his _best_ days – but he always sees the best in everything, garish sculptures included, and she loves him.

She gets a bit lost in her own thoughts, but she snaps out of it once she hears the soft sobs of someone she really hopes isn't her boyfriend. Except it is, of course. James Potter, a twenty year old man, crying over a thirty feet tall spider.

"It's so beautiful," he manages to croak out, and after a more thorough inspection, Lily has to agree. The intricate patterns woven into each of the statue's eight legs give it dimension, and there's a sack full of marble legs that should be putting her off but somehow aren't.

And of course, there's James. _Her James,_ who has tore their eyes away from that _'spectacular masterpiece'_ – his words, not hers – and is now looking at her like she's the sun.

"What is it?" she asks.

"I love you," replies James, wearing the same boyish smile she fell in love with. Straightening up all of a sudden, his expression twists into a shit-eating grin Lily knows can't be good. "I'm going to climb it."

"James, no-"

"James _yes,_ " he argues, and before she even gets the chance to do anything about it, he's already clung to one of its legs, scaling like his life depends on it. Mentally, she curses all those years of indoor climbing his mother put him through, because if she hadn't, Lily wouldn't be in this situation.

And then, because she's young and in love, she starts laughing when she notices him taking a selfie, dangling precariously off the sculpture, but loving every second of it.

It's in that moment that the museum guards start pouring in.


End file.
